


Prized Possessions

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Queen in the North AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr Baelish finds his two most cherished possessions sprawled before the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prized Possessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LotusEater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusEater/gifts).



She was  _exceedingly_  careful in her preparations. That afternoon, each lady’s maid received a gentle request to leave their queen’s chambers be come nightfall. Meticulous records were kept of each task that day, small ticks on parchment indicating when one had been addressed until the list was covered over in inky stripes. Sansa would not abide any disturbance; even the most trivial concerns were resoundingly brought to conclusion by the time her council adjourned. The queen’s studious attention to details large and small did not pass unremarked by her lords, nor unobserved by a husband familiar with customarily waning interest.

All that might have remained would be to bar the door to their chambers, though that would have the unfortunate outcome of preventing the desired party from gaining entry. And so Sansa abided that one small risk, trusting loyal servants to earn their qualifier that night. Cool Arbor gold sweated in aurulent prisms by a quietly roaring blaze, an essential facet to their solar by Lord Baelish’s decree. Tufts of bear hardly visible, the pelt a mere cushion, peeked out from beneath the oiled blue-black gleam of broad  _shadowcat_. Close enough to the flames that each hair might greedily retain every offering of heat, while kept at such a distance so as to prevent sullying with ash or ember. 

For all her trouble, Sansa Stark would not have her husband bemoan the ill-treatment of his prized pelt. 

One goblet, half-filled, perched amidst the rushes strewn about the stone floor. Beside it stretched inky fur; atop  _that_ , sight of sights, the Queen in the North reclined, dishabille in naught but a shift with laces loosened, wetted thumb dictating the casual turning of pages in a slender tome open before her. When door hinges heralded the arrival of a second body, her attention remained downwards; only after the clipped steps slowed to a halt did she dare glance over a shoulder peeking free of its silken confines. “I felt a chill,” came the murmured excuse, lips tilting up in soft apology.

Baelish fumbled for some moments before rediscovering his tongue. “I fear I feel it as well, my love.” A tone of reverence, its effect marred only by wary glance to servant’s entrance. Curve of lips alleviated that concern; blindly were the papers of his day set to one corner of weirwood desk, nearly tumbling down as he advanced upon the glimmering firelight vision. “And I would join you, to chase it away.” Her smile broadened, ivory teeth showing, before Sansa glanced back to her narrow book and set it aside.

A gracious nod was all the Lord Baelish required, deviant shades of green fully trained on the nymph stretched languidly across ———  _was that_?  _Oh yes_ , he would find himself _quite_  warm before  _this_  fire. Silvery avian glint was unpinned, so many hidden fastenings undone from collar to hips; the seemingly understated black doublet, delicate patterning easily elucidated in the coy flames, fell open to a tunic of brightest evergreen. Colorful, beneath any other trappings she might beg of him. That too was coaxed open, ties dangling loose as he made the most careful map of the creature still feigning oblivious recline. Silk joined velvet on the floor. Then boots were toed off and kicked aside; little time passed until laces were undone, breeches shoved over hips and down calves for Petyr to stand bare at her back.

"My lady is overdressed, I think," he slyed, feet padding across cool stones to bring them close. A bending of knees and he sat at her waist on the fur, fingers an idle comb through riotous auburn. "Perhaps she would do me the honor of  _remedying_  said offense?” Lifting her chin from where it rested on crossed arms, Sansa hummed assent. Fingers dug into ebony fibers, knuckles white and tense as she pushed up to sit before him, back to the fire so that a golden corona surrounded her.

" —— But of course." Swaying close as if to kiss him, she drew back before even a breath could be shared. Fingers crept down legs curled to her side, inching up translucent silk until it bunched at Sansa’s hips. He watched only her face, avaricious, even as it disappeared behind an ivory fluttering. A graceful arcing of limbs consigned the slip to the pile of clothes Baelish created, all the man required to hook one arm about her waist and guide Sansa to her back. "Might I inquire as to the occasion?" A knee wedged between her legs; without hesitating, thighs parted until he was granted the room to settle above her, one palm at her side, the other beside her head where fingers toyed with splayed hair. 

Sansa smiled up at her husband, a cheerful expression, rather than lascivious. That would come. Soon. “A wife wishing to please her husband is not reason enough?” Hair of a different sort tangled with his, hips tilting in their unending quest to  _tease_. She could feel him, heavy but not yet hard, trailing along her thigh. The fingers of one hand ventured downwards, a light tickling that became encouraging strokes from root to tip. Slow, desirous of readiness, without a panting urgency. Petyr breathed deep, fingers digging into the rich pelt beneath them, yet his gaze remained steadfast on the woman below.

"The only reason I require." When had she last come to him, not under cover of darkness or bed linens, before adjourning to feather down was even  _broached_? And all her planning, so meticulous now that the acts of the day were given such lewd context, to dress a stage of urgency most uncouth. Did the common folk even see fit to rut before a lit grate? Certainly not on a pelt as broad, as lushly furred as the Lord Baelish’s prized acquisition, nor would any partner ever rival the woman beneath him now.

His  _queen_ , stoking desire with nimble fingers and knowing smile, confident in her power and just in its execution. 

No, this was no soot-stained tryst. Only Sansa might take something so  _crass_  and transform it, create from it a joining both beautiful and delicate. The urge to  _ravage_ , seize and claim all that was offered as though he had been of a mind to steal it all along became a terrible welling in Petyr’s breast.  _He was her **husband** , he required no reason at all_. Hips began to move, thrusting in her palm until the sinful thoughts tumbled out of him in a rattling moan only the clamping of mouth to neck could muffle.

Her touch slipped away, arms curling beneath his ribs while lips eloped along the bony jut of collarbone, down to the fleshy dip below his throat. “Find me.” She was ready, had  _been_ ready, eyes tracing words on the pages of her prop whilst mind lingered on events yet to come. The line of Sansa’s back curved, pelvis raised in singular quest. “ _Find me, Petyr_.” Needing no more encouragement, words forcing from the man a blissful shuddering, his weight shifted above her. “A while longer. I could wait…a while longer…,” Baelish promised even as he took himself firmly in hand, length tracing teasing lines along her slit. 

Though she could be made to writhe in the most inciteful manner, the lord was under no illusions that his lady wife distilled her pleasure exclusively from the basest of carnal attentions. Tender words, reverent caresses, plodding attentions of lips and tongue. Sansa needed no instruction in the enjoyment of  _those_  delights. Ardency might be coaxed from her following that manner of affection, yet to be  _greeted_  with it was a pleasure most rare. Petyr would not,  _could_  not, squander her supplication.

Only fools refused the pleas of a goddess.

_He wanted to watch_. Muscles flexed taut along the arm braced at her shoulder, granting the man a vantage to take in expectant gaze and arched belly; beryl hardly need slant to catch sight of his cock held steady amidst coppery hair. With a smooth thrust he  _found_ her, gazing for only a moment on their joining until finding himself transfixed by the pleasured approbation drawing his wife’s features slack. The hand between them drifted towards her hip, encouragement Sansa required not to raise both legs from inky fur and wrap them about his waist.

“ _Petyr_ …” She  _clung_  to him, the world abandoned for warm skin and the muted wash of breath at her throat. “ _Husband_ …” Her hold tightened, pressing him to her center with a gratified sigh. It was then that Baelish began to move, unhurried strokes inside her with all the masked tension of one  _savoring_  the union. Wanting nothing more than to bury himself in the softness where shoulder met throat, his descent was arrested by the swirls of auburn like sunbursts across the mountain cat’s hide. Palm moved with slippery intent until it could curl through the hair of woman and beast alike.  _His_. The woman. The warmth. All of it his alone, as nothing else had been or would be.

His neck bent, brow falling to perch previously scouted, breath now coming in soft, ragged pulls as absolute possession, absolute  _belonging_  threatened to overwhelm the inexorable pull of her body. Sansa moved beneath him, a graceful sway as arms shifted higher, finding pointed shoulder blades, the downy hair at his nape. Her own head tilted, a precarious lean upon Petyr’s all the better for him to hear the drawing of air weighted by desire, anticipation. They worked for some time in such a way, connection giving way to affection, which soon tumbled into a giving and taking of small pleasures that still fell short of a shuddering conclusion.

Until his fingers solicited a prickling sensation along her scalp, digging deep into the pelt with the tangle of her hair. Sansa hissed, quieted by the open press of his mouth to hers, the stilling of hips, the drifting of a hand to savaged skin in apology. “I want…”  _Everything. I want to fuck you on the throne of winter while your pissant lords watch. I want to memorize the thousand patterns your hair makes floating in the hot springs. I want to lock you away. I want to parade you across the realm entire, force every man to bend the knee, then guide you to yours. I want to own you as you have always owned me_. “I want you  _on_  me,” he confessed, lip curling. “ _Now_.”

Each moved at the same time, rolling over the pelt and closer to the fire until she was a hunched covering atop him, straightening to catch a hunter’s gaze. “ _Now_ ,” he repeated. Touch skittered down her flanks, following the winding path of unbound tresses to the swell of her hips where purchase was taken. A press of heel, then fingers, then heel, then fingers again in a bid to encourage a lewd rocking. Sansa pressed down, palms upon marred chest, pelvis on his, moving of her own accord. “And I…want…” Petyr had brought her to a plateau worth dwelling on, up to the point of further heights being presented as they were now. Under him, assuming the lazy movements of two familiars, she had worried more over proximity and an exhibition of willingness rather than completion. But with the press of him inside, filling, nudging, Sansa felt verdant tendrils of  _greed_  begin to thread through her thoughts.

Though the stage had been set for  _his_  entertainment, that did not mean she could fail to enjoy it as well.

“ _Yes_.” One word all that was needed.  _Take what you will_ , it told her,  _I will not be left wanting_. And so her body curled and unfurled in mirrored slopes, that hidden nub ground down through wiry hair to obliging bone. Soon, all too soon, undeniable pressure had built in her belly, of a sort impossible to ignore. Sansa always gasped at that, the revelation that she would come, as though she suspected each time it was only a myth, something beautiful granted only for the pleasure of being taken away. Petyr loved her for it, worked harder because of it, hands sweeping down and around thighs beginning to twitch with effort. “Yes,” he told her again, stare falling from blue to copper, the barest sight of him buried in his wife. So mannered a girl, now a woman as impeccably considerate, Sansa seized upon muttered permission and let herself go, a shuddering moan and dig of fingers heralding the intimate clench about his cock.

Petyr shot up, caging her in his arms, working up against her as release granted the queen unadulterated beauty.  _He could watch her forever_. Sansa clutched at what holds she could find, using every plane of his body in aid of her pursuit, a horrible shaking and gasping subsiding as the throbs at her center followed suit. Even then, there was no respite. “Again,” he rasped in selfish command. “ _Again_.” Rocking up, rocking forward, Baelish wedged one hand at the joining of bodies, shifting until another ragged gasp left her. “No…Petyr, please…” Entreaties fell upon ears deaf to anything but his own determination; that her body was capable of finding several times what his could only be granted once in their coupling was, in Baelish’s mind, a phenomenon to be  _celebrated_.

She lazed against him, boneless, elbows heavy upon shoulders bowed with effort. “ _Again_.” Lips tasted the salt of her clavicles, her temples, the sheen on wildly fluttering pulse while he labored.  _Once more, only once more, its such a simple thing…_ Hands began to scrabble along his back, falling away from sweat-slicked skin. It was the gesture of one looking to escape…or frantically pursue. His own breath turned sharp, anticipatory. Baelish would not withstand another crashing of waves. Air fell in short puffs against his ear, as though his wife were in the throes of pain, rather than ecstasy.

" ——-  _Petyr_!”  _ **Yes**_. When he felt for the second time the divine clutch of her walls, the vise of her body about his, the man did not resist demands wordlessly made. With a dire groan he joined her, spending hot inside her until he feared it was not enough, the offering of sweat and seed insufficient to sate a creature so much  _more_  than he. A thought that led him to grasp his wife all the firmer, nudging Sansa’s head from its hidden perch until lips could join again, tongues flickering benedictions against one another.

Slowly,  _slowly_  their bodies stilled, though red muscle continued to pound insistently behind its bony cage, lungs expanding avariciously in an atmosphere warmed by fire and couple alike. They kissed. They nuzzled. They took in each incremental drop from frenzy to contentment; irises asserting dominance over black centers, muscles unwinding, grimaces of exertion becoming faint, limp smiles of satiation. 

"I am of half a mind to rest here tonight," he confessed softly, at last relinquishing a hand to brush aside damp tendrils of hair from her brow. "On the floor?" Another matter entirely, in compare to the temporary arrangement… " _Sitting_?” Baelish chuckled, guiding them in a shallow arc until he once more lay upon his back.

“ _Hardly_.” Fingers swept backwards along her scalp, weaving though Tully red and coaxing Sansa to find rest where it most pleased him, head wedged beneath an obliging chin. “Not when I am possessed of so fine a covering. Below… _and_  above.” The man needed nothing else, and so he remained. Sated. Warm.  _Content_.


End file.
